A crow buries its secret
by hikachu
Summary: No hard feelings, he thought, and threw the note into a burning pile of dead leaves they passed by. (Happy birthday, Moeteli!)


**A crow buries its secret**

If she had to be honest, Milla thought sir Griffith was very nice (he was kind and polite even with clumsy servant girls like her), but he looked so perfect it was uncanny, almost unsettling. A face like that belonged on the walls of a church, not on the man she'd want to spend the rest of her life with.

Her husband, in fact, was going to be tall, very tall, and thick and strong; maybe a bit rough, but gentle deep down, because that's what honest, hardworking good men are like, her mother used to say, and that's how her dad used to be too, back in the old days, when Milla was still too young to remember.

The other maids laughed at her when she said that, saying that her tastes were unrefined and she lacked ambition (and when they thought she couldn't hear them, they also called her, a country bumpkin). Milla didn't care though. She knew they just wanted to bully her, who was still somewhat new to the job and from a small town near the capital. She also knew that she didn't lack ambition, no, her dreams were simply more likely to be fulfilled. Another thing her mother used to say was, envy's a vicious beast, after all.

Working at the royal palace was hard, but also rewarding, and Milla wasn't going to give up—especially not when she had finally met the man of her dreams.

He was one of the men working under sir Griffith, and Milla had seen him for the first time about four months ago, when the Hawks marched from battle back into the city, victorious, under a shower of cheers and flowers. She had been there to greet them, and she had been sure that it simply _had_ to be him as soon as her eyes fell first on his broad back and then, as he turned around to glance at the crowd, on his face: his expression was part lost and part irritated, a tiny bit embarrassed, almost cute, like someone who's not used to all this grandeur in the slightest (just like me!, Milla had thought, then), but his eyes were kind, she knew, she had seen it, she was sure of it.

And Milla received further proof of his kindness when he saved her (and a basket full of fresh vegetables) from falling down the stairs one day that she had been running towards the kitchen like a headless chicken: it was a disgraceful display for a lady, she wasn't supposed to scurry around like that, Milla knew, but, really, it was an emergency, because she was behind on her schedule and without the vegetables, the cook was surely behind on his schedule too, and she was already trembling, thinking of the lecture she'd get in a few minutes, but, oh, when Milla felt his arms around her waist, she was sure the cook and the other maids could have scolded her every day for the remaining days of the week and she wouldn't have cared.

"Careful," he muttered before releasing her.

Milla could feel the back of her neck and the tip of her ears burning as she tried to decide whether to say thank you or ask for his name first. Finally, she looked up, only too see sir Griffith at the foot of the stairs, looking at them. He seemed a bit… impatient, maybe, with his arms crossed like that.

"Guts? Are you coming?"

"Ah," her savior looked over his shoulder. "Yeah, sorry!" then he offered her a quick nod, patted her shoulder rather awkwardly, and sprinted off after Griffith.

Guts, Milla mouthed, sir Guts, and fell to her knees.

In the days that followed, Milla learned a lot about him from the other servants; she nurtured her love for months, waiting for campaign after campaign to end, only to find that, every time, she lacked the courage to approach him. But today, oh, today she was going to let sir Guts know! She would express her feelings properly and with the utmost sincerity, and who cared if the others were going to call her unrefined and a country bumpkin for being so straightforward? Milla was sure that someone like sir Guts would understand her.

And so, on her free day, she roamed the hallways in her best dress – the grey one she wore for mass – and a basket dangling from the crook of her arm. She had filled it with all sorts of cookies, sweet bread, and jam.

Milla had no idea where her love was, except that he was in the castle, but luckily, it was his voice that led her to him.

"Would you look at that—"

"It's just… a matter of practice."

There was someone with sir Guts, and that someone was laughing. No person who had already heard that voice could possibly forget its owner.

"Hah? You mean you've been rewritin' the same stuff over and over until you got it to look all nice and proper? Griffith?"

"Well. That is how ancient texts have been preserved for centuries in the monasteries of the Holy See…"

"Oi, oi, don't tell me you wanna become a monk now: the half-bald look wouldn't be much flattering on ya, I'm sorry to say."

Griffith laughed again and Milla saw his hand fall onto Guts' shoulder.

They were in one of the small gardens that nobody of a certain status ever used, and Guts was sitting at a stone table equipped with writing tools and an apple. Griffith was standing behind him. They were both smiling.

Before the other could say anything, Guts picked up the apple and sunk his teeth into it, only to have it stolen a couple bites later by Griffith, who had apparently decided to take revenge by finishing it on his own.

And Griffith's revenge started exactly where Guts had left off: white teeth on teeth marks and already exposed white pulp.

Somehow, watching that, Milla became suddenly aware that she was an intruder, that there was no place for her in this picture that wasn't inside, behind a wall, hiding and spying. She took a few steps back, quick, almost on the verge of panic, and something crunched under her foot (Stupid cockroaches! Stupid Melusine, it was her turn to take care of them!). The noise, usually so insignificant, at that moment seemed impossibly loud.

Heart throbbing in her throat, Milla raised her head and then—she saw it. It was the same expression from that day, on the stairs. So weird on that kind, serene face; even more unsettling than its flawless beauty. But finally—Finally, today, Milla could understand what that gaze meant—and it made the blood in her veins freeze.

It was the gaze you would reserve for something dirty, less than human, of no importance, a nuisance, an eyesore. Something you want gone and that _will_ disappear, because you will make sure of it. Sir Griffith was looking at her with such eyes.

Milla saw his hand sliding undisturbed from sir Guts' shoulder to his neck and then his clavicle. She saw sir Griffith walking closer, closer, until she was sure his stomach was brushing against sir Guts' back. She saw his hair pressed close and mingling with sir Guts'. She saw his lips almost touching sir Guts' ear while he whispered something. Milla saw all these things and couldn't look away, because all the while, Griffith was still staring at her, and it scared her, now, to think of what this person could do to her, if she wasn't alert around him.

Milla saw all these things and decided that she had to give up, that there was no other choice for her, an unrefined girl like her, a peasant like her, a country bumpkin like her; not with this man, not in this castle, not in this city.

She ran away, covering her mouth with both hands because she couldn't let anyone else hear her sobs.

* * *

"Hey, s'already warm enough as it is," Guts muttered while swatting away Griffith's hand from his collarbone.

Griffith chuckled.

"You deserved it for making fun of my penmanship—Oh, look at this, Guts!" Griffith lifted a basket from somewhere around the entrance. "It's filled with cookies and all sorts of sweet things. One of the servants must have left it here for us."

"Y'mean, one of your pretty dame admirers left it for you."

"Or, it could have been an admirer of yours."

Guts blinked, frowned, then shoved him lightly and barked a laugh.

"Come on, let's go share it with the others: Rickert loves this stuff and I bet Casca does too—not that that madwoman'd ever admit it."

Smiling, Griffith nodded and followed after Guts.

Inside his fist, was a now crumpled note he had found inside the basket. He didn't care for the girl one way or another, but to protect what was his from greedy outsiders was his right and duty as general and future king and also, it was simply his nature.

No hard feelings, he thought, and threw the note into a burning pile of dead leaves they passed by.


End file.
